


Alone Isn't the Only Answer

by AlineRusu



Series: How to Heal the Unknown Wound [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Scenes, Cutting, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, I've never done this before, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, This Was Written As A Coping Mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlineRusu/pseuds/AlineRusu
Summary: At a crime scene Sherlock is triggered and ends up spiraling. TW: PTSD, Flashbacks, Self-Harm, Abuse
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: How to Heal the Unknown Wound [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724479
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Self-harm, sexual assault, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, abusive relationship
> 
> Please note, this is my first attempt at writing any sort of fiction, fanfic or otherwise. I wrote it as a way to cope with my own difficulties and all the trauma and self-harm plot points are directly taken from my own personal experience, so please be kind.
> 
> I, obviously, do not own Sherlock.  
> Also, I am not british, so sorry for any Americanisms.

“Bloody hell.”

Lestrade never got used to these cases. He leaned his forehead against the wall of his office, soaking in the coolness of the glass. The girl had been raped and killed by her boyfriend of several years. He, of course, was denying it even though the evidence (provided by the unfathomable observations of Sherlock Holmes) was irrefutable.

The DI tried to empty his mind and reassured himself that all would be taken care of. The man had been caught and would, with any luck, be put away for a _very_ long time. Honestly, this case hadn’t been as bad as some.

He took a breath, stood, and headed home.

* * *

12 days. 12 days, 4 hours, and 37 minutes. That is how long John Watson had been away. Of course, Sherlock knew it down to the second, but he had observed that that level of precision was usually superfluous to ordinary people. Only 5 hours until John would return. Under normal circumstances, the world’s only Consulting Detective wouldn’t be particularly troubled by the extended absence of his flatmate. He might not even notice that he had gone for several days. These, however, were not normal circumstances.

It had begun with a case from Scotland Yard, called in five days ago. Sherlock was bored, having only had two cases the week prior, and immediately hailed a cab to the crime scene. Once he got to the apartment he dashed up the stairs to the apartment. The body was laying prostrate on the couch with patches of mostly-dried blood on the cushions. He glanced around the scene: a one bedroom apartment. Barely at that. It could almost be called a studio.

“Right! So!” Sherlock smiled and clapped his hands together in the way which meant he was ready to get started. He liked this part. The shocked looks on the faces of those around him were amusing.

“Got any ideas?” It was Lestrade.

“Six, so far. Background?”

“Wait, so you’ve got six ideas, and you don’t even know the details of the case?” The Inspector looked baffled.

“Yes. Background?” Sherlock didn’t see why this was pertinent.

Lestrade humpfed. “Right. Well, this is Kylie Horan, 24, reported missing two days ago.”

At this point, Sherlock stopped listening. Two days? That was too long for there to still be any fresh blood…

“Look for the boyfriend,” Sherlock said, and walked out.

Usually he gave more of an explanation, even without John there to remind him that not everyone’s minds worked as quickly as his, but this time for some reason, Sherlock had felt he needed to leave. Right now. Anyway, he had solved the case, so no big deal, right?

* * *

Lestrade watched, surprised, as Sherlock quickly stalked from the room. It wasn’t unlike the idiot genius to forget that he needed to elaborate sometimes, but it was unusual for him to just leave without at least a bit of showing off.

“I wonder what set him off,” Greg thought to himself. He didn’t think he had said anything of particular import.

“What’s with the Freak?” Donovan leaned on the door of the apartment, as standoffish as ever.

“Nothing. Get Anderson. We need that forensics sweep.” He paused, thinking. Had the Consulting Detective gone paler before he left? “And would you stop calling him that? What’s he ever done to you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self-harm

Sherlock was making tea.

“Four and a half,” he murmured to himself. “That’s doable.” He thought back to earlier that day. He had gotten a call from Lestrade, who simply refused to text instead of call, confirming his thoughts and asking for any details he could give for the trial. Sherlock had rattled off the list of condemning factors he had gotten at the crime scene before abruptly hanging up.

The victim had been raped and murdered by her boyfriend, who was now, thankfully, in police custody.

God, he wished John were here. He knew the ex-army doctor would calm him, even if Sherlock didn’t show any discomfort. John’s presence was a force of calm and neutrality in Sherlock’s dizzying mind.

Why did this case have to come while John was away?

“To be honest,” he thought “this sort of thing doesn’t usually affect me like this. Why is it now?”

Why now?

He remembered the time he had spent far from his home at Baker Street, working to make sure Moriarty’s network was gone for good. Without John. This hadn’t bothered him then, but he supposed he had had other things on his mind at the time.

Sherlock took a sip from the teacup. Or tried to. He had forgotten to fill it. He poured in some hot water. It was the first time today that he had gotten out of bed. Or out of sofa, he supposed. He began to catalogue the days since the beginning.

Day 1 - After returning from the crime scene five days ago he had lain down on the couch facing the wall, curled in a ball as he sometimes did when in a “mood.” He hadn’t gotten up more than once or twice a day since. He stared at the wall, his phone, the chairs by the unused fireplace. For the first day, that’s all he did. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He just stared.

Day 2 - The second day had been… interesting. He felt like he was _remembering_ but these things hadn’t happened to him. He knew that for a fact. He hadn’t just deleted the memories. He lay limply on the couch facing the sitting room, his eyes glazed over as scenarios passed through his mind, feeling real but imaginary at the same time. It was as if the threats had actually happened, instead of staying threats. These false memories were from years ago. He didn’t see why they should still be affecting him. And anyway, they _hadn’t happened_. He lay on the couch the whole day, not getting up for anything more than a cup of tea at 4pm.

Day 3 - It had been a long time since he’d had the urge to cut, and yet…

He slowly got up and went to the desk. He had all sorts of sharp objects there, none of which he really wanted to use. He didn’t actually know what he wanted. Just something to distract him. Something to make him _feel_. Usually he tried not to feel, but right now he needed it. Anything was better than the empty, separate feeling he had from the day before. He riffled through the drawer and found what he was looking for.

He took the plastic mechanical pencil and let out a millimeter of graphite; just enough so it wouldn’t break when he used it. He took it with him into the bathroom and filled the tub. Soft skin always helped with this method. The water was hot enough to burn. As Sherlock got in he admired the way the overly hot water turned his pale skin red beneath the shimmering surface. His arms slipped below the surface of the water, softening, and burning, and turning a shade of red that was definitely inadvisable. He lay like that, staring up at the ceiling and letting the water cool down.

After about an hour of this he picked up the pencil in his right hand and shakily held it above his left forearm.

“Just a couple,” he told himself. He lowered the tiny tip of graphite until it touched the soft skin, pressed down, and dragged it slowly across the fragile, wet flesh. It didn’t really do anything. He hadn’t really expected it to with that little of an effort. He placed it down again, pressed harder, and ripped. This time, skin broke. Not much, just enough for a little blood to seep out. Not even enough to bead. This was repeated several more times before Sherlock got out of the now cold bath.

A couple hours later, pencil met skin again, more violently this time, quickly bringing beads of blood to the surface. Sherlock bit his lip and breathed hard, enjoying the sensation. This was what he needed to keep the hollowness at bay. Twenty minutes and thirty scratches later, the detective went into the bathroom again and cleaned and bandaged the scrapes. No sense in them getting infected. It’s a good thing he only wore long sleeved shirts.

Day 4 - The hollowness had returned. It didn’t feel right to say with a vengeance because really what it did was take away the feeling of everything else in the world. It dulled Sherlock’s senses and made him tired.

He tried to eat. He knew he hadn’t really eaten more than a tea biscuit or two for several days, and that wasn’t good, but he couldn’t quite get himself to eat a meal. After warming up some spaghetti on the stove and failing to eat more than three bites before he began to feel nauseous, he sat on the couch and turned on the telly. He didn’t know what he wanted to watch. He didn’t even like television. Sherlock flicked through the channels until he hit some old Star Trek reruns.

“Good,” he thought. “There’s always some injury or another in this.” He kept watching late into the night, switching channels at random when he got bored. It struck him at one point around 10:00 that he wasn’t doing himself any favors. The themes he was seeking out, pain, violence, injury, assault… These were the things making him feel this way, but it was what he wanted. When a character onscreen got hurt, he felt a peculiar sensation in his sternum right near his solar plexus.

At 12:17 he stood up quickly and walked to his bedroom. He needed to purge the emptiness. It had worked yesterday. Maybe a bit more would ward it off for longer. He opened a small drawer in his bureau. Reaching in, his fingers found what they needed: it was an exacto-knife, the kind used for crafts and such. It had a sharp triangular blade and a silver handle that felt cold in Sherlock’s grip. He had almost forgotten it was there.

After taking off the bandages, he set the tip of the blade to his left arm, just between two pencil scratches. It sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He slowly dragged it across his arm, watching the thin red line that appeared in its wake. This was what he needed. He sighed. Around 20 thin stripes later, all very precisely made between pencil scratches, he wiped up the blood already drying on his bare arm. Almost none had leaked from the cuts, but it was more than yesterday. He cleaned and bandaged them before he went back to his couch and sat in front of the television until he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Day 5 - Today. He knew that he’d had nightmares the night before. He didn’t remember anything, but he remembered waking up scared several times during the night, and when he finally did wake for good, he felt anxiety creeping into his chest.

Sherlock lay on the couch facing the wall for much of the day. Lestrade called around 1:00 in the afternoon, and now he was making tea. He hadn’t eaten since the feeble attempt at spaghetti the day before. Maybe he should try again.

He made some toast, ate two bites, and began to feel sick to his stomach. He’d stick to tea.

The call with Lestrade was harder on Sherlock than he’d like to admit. He’d had to state some very specific things for the slightly-less-idiotic-than-most Detective Inspector which had made his knees feel strangely weak. Even so, he thought that he had managed quite well. Surely Lestrade wouldn’t notice anything was wrong.

Ashamedly, Sherlock realized that wasn’t really what he wanted. He wanted someone to notice and to force him to talk about it. Otherwise he’d never say anything, never do anything, he’d just sit on his own and bleed and _feel_ until eventually his transport remembered how to function.


	3. Chapter 3

After Sherlock hung up so suddenly, a few things clicked into place for Lestrade. He didn’t know the detective well, but he knew him better than most people on this earth, accepting John Watson and Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was upset. He had seen it before, but rarely, and usually only when John or Mrs. Hudson was in danger. Greg didn’t know what could be causing it this time, except for possibly the case earlier in the week. He didn’t see what was so different about this particular case. It was pretty cut and dried once you got all the facts. Disturbing, sure, but what made Greg moderately upset didn’t usually even phase the younger Holmes brother.

Lestrade didn’t know what could be affecting Sherlock Holmes this way. What he did know was that the man was _not_ all right.

He picked up his mobile and dialed John.

* * *

John was just leaving the conference center when his phone rang. Lestrade.

“Funny. Usually he calls Sherlock,” the doctor muttered to himself. He was tired and didn’t particularly want to deal with a case at the moment. As soon as Greg started speaking, he shut himself up.

“John, hey. I think something’s wrong with Sherlock.”

John paused in his steps for a moment. “What… What do you mean?”

Lestrade sounded mired somewhere between confused and concerned. “He just, I dunno mate. I had him on a case earlier this week, Monday, and he solved it in two seconds flat, and then he went sort of… pale, and left without saying anything else. Then when I called him today his voice was shaking. Sherlock. With a shaking voice. I dunno what’s up with him. I thought you would want to know.”

He was right. John did want to know.

“Thanks Greg. I’m on my way home. I’ll check on him and keep you updated.” They hung up.

“Shit,” muttered the doctor, and ran to the train station.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Flashbacks, Self-harm, Dissociation, Emotional abuse and manipulation, Sexual Assault/Rape

Sherlock was doing some calculations. John’s conference was over. The doctor would likely stop for a coffee on his way to the train station meaning he’d miss the earliest train, opting for the one leaving half an hour later. With the hour long train ride, that meant that Sherlock had around two hours before John would return. Plenty of time.

Grabbing his supplies, Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed facing away from the door. He didn’t think. He had stopped thinking as soon as the calculations were complete. Long fingers grasped the handle of the small blade, angling it so that its tip pointed down towards his exposed thigh. The first cut was shallow. Barely visible, even after he pulled the flesh on either side to encourage it to bleed. He kept going, not really getting much deeper.

_You’re worthless. A terrible person. Who cares what you feel? It’s your job to fix it for others. Solve their crimes. Just like it was your job to fix him._

Sherlock’s mind raced, his breath coming quicker and heavier. The pain was making him light headed, even though there was almost no blood. His mind started to pull him back into the past, into memories and ‘what if?’ scenarios. The world around him faded, but the lithe, pale hands continued their work.

* * *

_The mobile phone rang. Sherlock’s hands shook as he answered it: he both dreaded and craved the conversation that would follow._

_The low but reedy voice of his friend, Kai, greeted him, telling Sherlock about his day. It had been average. His health was still in decline, school had been fine, he was disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t skived class to come meet him in the parking lot. He had wanted to kiss him._

_Sherlock shuddered. He had never been kissed. Deep down he knew he didn’t love this boy as anything more than a friend, but everything his friend said made him question that knowledge. Not because it wasn’t true, but because Kai was so very persuasive._

_“I know how you could make it up to me…” the voice on the other end of the telephone said, slyly._

The scene changed.

_They were video calling tonight. Sherlock was laying in bed under the covers. Earlier, Kai had made it very clear to him that from his perspective they were together, calling Sherlock his boyfriend. That had made the young man uncomfortable but he didn’t fight the assertion, knowing it would do no good. Instead, he just retreated further into himself, not knowing what to do. Sherlock was starting to hate phone calls._

_Tonight his… boyfriend… was ranting about some minuscule thing that had set him off. Sherlock knew that Kai was depressed. How could he not? Every night, it seemed, Kai created a new way to get Sherlock to give him even more of himself. It started small. Things like telling Sherlock that he was the only one who could make it better, getting him to stay on the line long after Sherlock should have been asleep to ‘help’ him feel happy. Eventually, once the romantic and sexual ideas got into Kai’s head, the manipulation grew to things like convincing Sherlock that if he didn’t talk to him and return his intimate feelings, Kai would harm himself._

_Tonight, Kai was angry. Sherlock didn’t even know why, but he knew it was his fault. It always was. Eventually, Kai’s voice calmed from anger to something sickly and smooth._

_“Sherlock… you know what would make me feel better?”_

_Sherlock shuddered under his blankets._

_Kai was quiet for a moment. “… Show me something of yourself. Take off your shirt.”_

_Sherlock weakly protested, but Kai kept pushing. “Please? Just a bit. It would make me so happy. You do want to make me happy, right, Sweetheart?” That’s what Kai called Sherlock. Never did he refer to him by his name. Always Sweetheart. It should have been cute, but it just made Sherlock shiver with fear._

_Eventually, he gave in. Propping his phone on his nightstand, Sherlock sat up and slowly stripped his shirt from his torso, pausing once in mild panic. Kai’s voice urged him on._

_No one outside of his family had ever seen Sherlock shirtless. He sat in his bed, shirt wrapped around his hands, shaking._

_“That’s lovely… You’re lovely,” Kai whispered. “Show me more.” It was a command._

_“I don’t know… I…” Sherlock muttered, knowing what that meant._

_“Come on. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” The voice on the telephone was slimy with lust and greed._

_“That… That’s really not necessary,” Sherlock murmured, loud enough for Kai to hear, but he didn’t get a response aside from “Come on. Please? For me?”_

_Slowly, Sherlock removed his sweatpants._

_“More,” the voice commanded._

_Hands shaking, he removed his boxers, revealing his genitals. He was breathing hard now, but not from pleasure._

_“Funny, I thought you’d be a little harder. Or hard at all,” Kai smirked. Sherlock sat on his bed, looking down and to the right, as far away from the phone and his naked lap as he could._

_“Look at me,” demanded the voice from the phone._

_Sherlock looked and saw as Kai’s face was replaced by a very erect penis. He shook with anxiety._

The scene changed again.

_A phone call, tonight. It was much too late and Sherlock was exhausted. He hadn’t gotten a decent sleep for months now, spending every night on the phone with Kai._

_“Why do I get the feeling that if we were together right now, I’d be on top of you?”_

_Sherlock could barely get out his answer. “No, you wouldn’t.”_

_“Yes I would.”_

_“I don’t want that…”_

_“Doesn’t matter. I’d change your mind.”_

_Eventually, Sherlock sunk into a strange mental state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He was aware of the sounds around him, but he couldn’t get his body to respond to his mind._

_“Sweetheart, are you asleep?”_

_Sherlock didn’t, couldn’t, answer._

_The sounds changed from relative silence to shifting bedsheets and a rhythmic thumping, accompanied by some unpleasant noises from Kai. Every now and again, Kai would pause in his activities and ask if he had woken Sherlock up, sounding hopeful. Sherlock heard everything, but couldn’t reply. Eventually, with a low moan, Kai’s end of the line went silent, and he hung up._

The scene changed again, this time to an imagined scenario. Sherlock didn’t have control over these. They invaded his mind with what-ifs and pain and fear even though none of the things had ever actually happened.

_Kai leaned over Sherlock on the bed, kissing him on the mouth. Sherlock tried to shrink back into the covers, but failed to avoid the unwanted touch. The other man shifted position and sat on Sherlock’s pelvis, making him softly cry out in pain. Kai grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, forcing them above his head, and kissed him again. Not hard or passionately, but softly and gently. It was nonetheless unwanted, and to Sherlock it felt like a slap in the face. The kisses continued down onto Sherlock’s jaw, then neck, then collarbone. He struggled to get away but couldn’t. Kai reached down and ripped open Sherlock’s trousers. He scooted down so he was sitting on Sherlock’s knees and undid his own fly. Sherlock knew what would follow and tried to look away, but found he couldn’t. Kai revealed that hateful organ, fully erect, and began to stroke it._

_“Well, Sweetheart, I told you I’d be on top of you.”_

_He moved Sherlock’s legs apart, and set his dick against Sherlock’s ass. He grinned maniacally and pushed in._

Pain. Not in his rectum though, in his thigh. Sherlock looked down to discover around 30 shallow cuts and one deeper one, the blade still resting at its end. This one was deeper than he’d ever gone before. The edges weren’t touching, and it was actually bleeding.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he slurred. He felt nauseous. He just sat there staring at it, still heavily dissociated, not really knowing what to do.

A sound came from the door. “Sherlock? Lestrade said… Oh, shit.”

It was John.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of self-harm, Flashbacks, Panic

The doctor stood in the doorway, staring, knowing he should do something.

Sherlock didn’t react to his entrance. He didn’t try to cover the marks, or wipe away the blood, or even glance in his direction.

John moved around to the side of the bed on which Sherlock was sitting. The detective’s eyes were glassy and his hand was loosely gripping a crafting blade. John slowly reached down and tried to take the razor from his friend, but Sherlock’s hand tightened around the handle.

“No…” he said weakly. “Don’t… don’t take it…”

That voice, so weak and fractured, nearly broke John. “Come on, Sherlock.” He rested his hand on Sherlocks shoulder, but he flinched away. “Please. Let me take it.”

John reached down and slowly removed the knife from the softening grip. Quickly, he threw it in the bin in the corner of the room. Sherlock flinched again at the sudden movement and John immediately felt guilty. He didn’t know what was happening right now but he knew better than to make quick movements around anyone as dissociated as Sherlock looked to be.

“God, Sherlock…” John went back to his friend and sat down next to him on the bed, looking at the bleeding cuts on this leg. “What happened?”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent.

“Yes dear? Could you repeat that?”

“‘M srry… Shouldn’ be ths way…” he slurred.

John kneeled on the floor in front of Sherlock and gently took his friend’s hands in his. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s all right. I’m here now. Whatever happened, it’ll be all right now.”

Sherlock didn’t pull away at the touch this time and John decided that was probably a good sign. They sat like that, John rubbing the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, for a few more minutes before John realized that he should probably try to clean and bandage Sherlock’s injuries.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

The injured man slowly nodded. John got up from the floor and eased his hands out of Sherlock’s grip. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Sherlock just nodded again, shoulders slumped, staring down at the floor.

John returned, kneeled down in front of him again, and began to deal with his friend’s injuries. Nothing was bleeding too much. Even the deeper cut, not deep enough to require stitches, was only sluggishly oozing. That didn’t mean things couldn’t get infected though. The thought was a grim one. He took a damp towel and began to pat the area clean. This done, he got some cleaning gauze and peroxide in a spritz bottle.

“Okay, Sherlock, this is going to hurt a bit.” He began to mist the cool liquid onto the open wounds. The peroxide fizzed and foamed as it hit the blood. Sherlock’s face twitched in pain, but he didn’t say anything.

Finally, wounds cleaned and bandaged under a clean layer of gauze, John looked up into Sherlock’s face, searching for something, anything, which could explain this. As far as he knew, this had never happened before. Then again, as far as he knew, it could happen every week. _‘Damn you Sherlock Holmes. Do you have to be so secretive?’_ thought John.

Out loud he said “Do you want to talk about it, love?” John had never called Sherlock ‘love’ before, heck, he had never used any term of endearment for him aside from ‘idiot,’ but considering the circumstances, he felt it was necessary. Besides. He was Sherlock Holmes. He knew how John felt about him.

Sherlock just shook his head silently and jerkily.

“I’m going to sit on the bed now,” John said softly, wanting to make sure that he didn’t startle the detective. He got up from the floor and sat on the bed to Sherlock’s right, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Sherlock leaned into the touch, signaling that it was appreciated. John scooted a bit closer and drew the taller man into a gentle embrace.

Sherlock surprised him by turning towards him and burying his face in John’s chest, hands grasping at the cloth of the doctor’s jumper. His breaths, barely noticeable before, began to speed up and rise in his chest. Before long, Sherlock was shaking in John’s arms, hyperventilating and choking on his own breath.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock, it’s okay. Slow breaths. I’m here, love,” John repeated over and over, rubbing small, comforting circles on Sherlock’s back, holding him closely, but not tightly.

After many minutes spent like this, Sherlock finally began to calm down enough to speak.

“I… I’m sorry…” His words were still slurred and halting, but they were understandable. “I didn’t mean for you to see me like this. You… you’re early.”

“Lestrade called me and told me you had seemed upset at a crime scene earlier this week and then again today when he called.” John ran his fingers through the younger man’s sweat-soaked hair, clearing the tangles away from his eyes.

Sherlock chuckled weakly. “I thought I’d hid it well enough to fool him.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “You… you called me dear. And love.”

John hesitated then quietly said “Come on. You know how I feel, surely. You’re bloody Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, but I…”

Realizing his possible mistake, John quickly interrupted. “You don’t need to feel like you have to return my feelings. I was just trying to comfort you, and it sort of slipped out.”

“The thing is though, John,” Sherlock breathed in deeply, “I have feelings for you, too. I _liked_ it when you called me those things.” Tears began to leak from his eyes and John reached with lightly trembling hands to wipe them away.

“It’s okay for you to have feelings you know, Sherlock.”

The detective looked down, ashamed. “But that’s not who I am. I’m logical, rational. A machine, remember?” Despite the harsh words, his muscles had begun to relax.

“Everyone has their moments. Even you, Sherlock Holmes.” The doctor laughed weakly. “You’re just as human as the rest of us, even if you like to pretend otherwise.”

Sherlock glanced at John, a slight smile on his well shaped mouth. “There you go, revealing my secret.”

“Well, if this is going somewhere, it’ll have to come out sometime, Sweetheart.”

Sherlock recoiled from John, breath coming faster once again. He pushed himself away from the embrace and backed as far away as he could on the bed, shaking violently.

“No. No, no, no.” He looked into John’s eyes with abject terror. “Please, no, don’t!”

The ex-soldier recognized the glazed look in his friend’s face as his eyes saw things that weren’t there. He’d had no idea that this was PTSD related, assuming it was just a depressive episode. He didn’t even want to imagine what could reduce the normally totally self-assured detective to this.

The doctor didn’t try to touch the cowering man on the bed in front of him, knowing it could possibly make things worse. Instead he calmly tried to remind Sherlock of reality. “Sherlock, darling, I don’t know what you’re seeing, but it’s not real. You’re here with me, at Baker Street.” He glanced around, silently cursing the lack of anything he could use to help ground his flatmate. Finally his eyes set on a small bottle of low-molar citric acid Sherlock had been using in an experiment. It wasn’t much, but it would do. John slowly went over to the sideboard to get it, making sure to avoid fast movements. As he turned back he heard Sherlock beginning to whimper through his hyperventilation.

“Please, don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t make me please…” It looked to John that the tall gangly man was trying to simultaneously collapse in on himself and push something, or someone, away from him. Suddenly, the detective let out a pained and plainly horrified sob. “Stop! Stop… Please stop…”

That sound shattered John’s heart. He tried to keep his movements slow and measured as he went back to Sherlock but he was filled with anxiety for his friend. Sherlock shied away as John drew closer.

“Here, Sherlock, smell this.” He gently waved the open bottle of sour smelling liquid near Sherlock’s face. “It’s all right. Everything is okay. You’re safe in your bed in 221b, and I’m right here next to you.” Gradually, as John spoke and wafted the unusual scent towards the detective, the glazed look in Sherlock’s eyes began to clear slightly, and John decided it was safe to try and touch him. He set the bottle down on the nightstand and slowly lowered himself onto the bed in front of Sherlock. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” He reached out and placed a calloused hand on Sherlock’s knee.

The younger man was still gasping for breath, but he seemed to be more aware of his surroundings.

“Sherlock, dear, tell me what you see.”

Sherlock continued to shiver under John’s touch, but he looked around himself, trying to determine what was real and what was just a figment of his imagination.

“That’s right. Look around. This is your bedroom at 221b Baker Street. You’re safe here.” John moved to pick up Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his own chest. “Breathe, Sherlock. You’re safe. Feel my breath? Breathe along with it.” The doctor breathed slowly and deeply and Sherlock responded, slowing from hyperventilation to still quick but deeper gasps.

After about a minute of this, Sherlock spoke.

“John.”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“I… I knew it was you, but another part of me thought it was someo…” He stopped mid sentence.

“You don’t have to tell me about it. I know what it feels like. To have a flashback.”

“I know you do… I want to tell you. I do, I want to, but I don’t want you to…” he got quieter, “to think I’m weak.”

If John’s heart was already shattered, that statement pulverized it into dust. “Sherlock, you are the single strongest person I know. Whatever happened, whatever trauma caused this, I will never think less of you for it.” He eased his arms around the still-trembling man in front of him, and Sherlock relaxed a bit into his embrace, still clutching at John’s jumper. John leaned down into him and pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock’s head in a not-quite-kiss and stroked the other man’s damp, curly hair.

Eventually, after his shaking had abated to a mild tremulousness, Sherlock sat up and stretched out his limbs, sore after the hour and a half or so of tense muscles. John was distressed to see that Sherlock’s thrashing had caused him to aggravate the cuts on his leg. They had already bled through the bandaging.

“Oh dear… Sherlock, I think I need to redress your thigh. It’s bleeding again.”

Sherlock looked down at his leg in mild surprise and flinched. “Oh. Yeah. I uh, forgot.”

John went and grabbed the medical supplies he’d used earlier while keeping an eye on his flatmate. He wasn’t sure why but he knew that he didn’t want to let him out of his sight, at least for the time being.

As John went into doctor mode once again, cleaning and re-bandaging his friend’s wounds, Sherlock began to speak.

“What I was saying earlier… I knew it was you but a significant part of me thought you were someone else.” He hissed as John cleaned the largest cut with peroxide. “It was… a long time ago. It’s stupid that I even still remember it, but I can never seem to delete it.” He paused, and John stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of self-harm, rape, abuse

Sherlock spoke very quietly. “I had a… a friend, Kai. In secondary school. He did what you came in on me doing a lot.” He couldn’t bring himself to say self-harming or cutting out loud. “He used a combination of emotional manipulation and threats to convince me that he needed me in order to be safe.” Sherlock couldn’t keep a few more tears from slipping down his pallid cheeks.

“At first it was just a casual friendship. Then one night he called me and told me he wanted to commit suicide. I talked him down. From then on we talked every night until very, very late. The habit I built in that year is why I barely sleep now. Our conversations were average, at first, with some extra attempts at comfort from my end. Eventually…” The man shuddered, and John looked at him with concern, but he continued. “Eventually he started telling me he loved me. I was only 16 at the time, John, I didn’t know what that meant, so I said it back. I made it clear I meant it completely platonically and he… didn’t take that well.”

Finished with the medical side of things, Dr. Watson got up and rejoined Sherlock on the bed. “Christ, Sherlock…” He didn’t know what else to say, so he pulled the other man into a hug once again.

Sherlock didn’t resist. Quite the opposite. Finally feeling somewhat at peace for the first time since the crime scene, he laid down curled in a loose ’S’ shape with his head in the doctor’s lap.

He continued. “He convinced me that it was my fault whenever he did anything to himself, and he made me feel guilty whenever I tried to go to him for emotional support by blaming himself, always turning the conversation to his problems, or wants, or needs.” Sherlock, the unfeeling detective, was silently weeping into John’s denim lap. In the next thirty minutes, he told John everything. From the smallest jabs to the threats and abuse, and how the crime scene made him imagine all the things that could have happened.

“He did… horrible things to me, John,” said Sherlock. “And the worst part is, he never laid a finger on me. We never once met in person after our initial encounter over the summer. He did all this to me, and he made sure that I _knew_ that if we were ever to meet in person, that he would tear me apart. Fuck me and rape me until he was satisfied, without any concern for how I felt.”

John was appalled, but thoughtful. Carefully, he asked “Sherlock, what made you fall into that flashback after you had begun to calm down?”

Sherlock was almost inaudible. “The pet name you used.” His voice broke when he said it. “Sweetheart. That’s what he called me. He never used my name. Just Sweetheart.” There was a sudden amount of venom in his voice as he spat out the word a second time.

John was stupefied with sorrow and rage. He had figured it was something he’d done or said, but that something so innocuous and well intended could be turned into such a weapon of torture brought up feelings in him that he had never experienced in such volumes.

“Well then, darling,” said the doctor once he was sure his voice was under control, “I will just have to find new terms of endearment for you.”

That made Sherlock blush. After about five minutes of silence, he came to a decision. “John?”

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“Kiss me?”

The request made John’s heart squirm in his chest and Sherlock’s innards twist in fear and hope.

John looked down at the face of his friend and saw the sincerity in his now clear blue eyes. He shifted so he was laying down alongside Sherlock, their noses almost touching. Leaning forward ever so slightly, he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s as gently as he could. After a moment John brought his hands up, one to rest on the back of his friend’s neck, one to run his fingers through Sherlock’s dark, slightly matted curls. He deepened the kiss slightly before breaking off. They were both breathing a little harder than before.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“I’m never letting you go.”

Sherlock burrowed deeper into John’s chest with a hum of satisfaction and contentment.

“That’s fine by me.”

Within minutes, Sherlock was calmly asleep for the first time in a week. John looked at his friend’s sleeping face, and sighed contentedly. He had never been happier in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. This has been a very cathartic experience for me as I work my way through a PTSD flare. I hope it can serve as both entertainment and educational content. PTSD and self-harm are big problems that aren't always obvious, and helping people in your life who are struggling is hard, but please keep trying. We all want help, even if we don't know how to properly express it.

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to continue this story in a series format. It will still be based heavily on my experiences, since it is still mainly a source of trauma recovery for me, but as it goes on it will probably become more fictionalized. Hope you enjoy it.


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